Off The Case!
by SirienneHolmes
Summary: Will become a series of little drabbles when Sherlock and John are off the case. PLEASE REQUEST if you'd like to see a certain situation written about. T because I've played with vampire!Sherlock and might very well play with fire in the future. I will try to keep it tame though. Not slash right now. Maybe in the future, though. NOT MEANT TO BE CONSECUTIVE!
1. The Adventure of the Vampire Question

**The Adventure of the Vampire Question**

"You _must_ be a vampire."

"Excuse me?"

John folded his paper and looked pointedly at his flatmate. "You heard me. A vampire."

Sherlock tilted his head slightly, and then tapped the ends of his fingers together. "I think you've been watching too many horror movies, John. I'm not a vampire. Vampires don't exist."

"Prove it."

"Prove what?" Sherlock was always ready to prove something.

"Prove that you're not a vampire," John put a plate of toast into Sherlock's empty lap. "Eat my toast."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John, I'm not going to eat _your_ toast, or any toast, for that matter. There's strawberry jam on top of the butter, which ruined the chemical balance of the two. Obviously, you don't know how to properly make toast."

John sighed and rolled his eyes. "That's not the _point_, Sherlock."

"And besides," Sherlock went on, "it happens to be Wednesday, so I happen to be good for another few days. Problem? Oh, and by the way, what _is_ the point, John?" He ended by smirking at his flatmate, who simply stared back at him.

John flipped open his paper again. "Forget it. I give up. If you want to run yourself into the ground—literally—I'll be there to say 'I told you so' and nurse you back to health again," His tone was sarcastic. Sherlock didn't quite appreciate that.

"Or maybe not," he said thoughtfully, licking his lips and putting the toast aside as he crossed and uncrossed and then recrossed his legs a different way. "Maybe I'm not hungry because I've been feeding off of the blood of innocents."

John peered over the paper at Sherlock, giving him a look of disbelief.

Sherlock grinned at him. "Maybe I drain little newborns dry in their hospital beds. Babies are so delicious, you know," he went on dreamily, his eyes skywards. They'd taken on a dangerous look, and John was almost afraid. He'd put down his paper and was now watching Sherlock intently. "So pure, free from any outside substances that adult humans put in their bodies—so much _junk_ it sickens me. All they drink is milk, and it makes their blood as creamy and delicious as, well…" Sherlock paused, trying to find a word to describe the taste. "…as marshmallows. Soft, fluffy marshmallows." And Sherlock licked his lips contemplatively.

John sat up straighter. "That's a lie!"

"Is it?" Sherlock leaned forward, invading his flatmate's space. John got up and Sherlock followed him, advancing slowly and meditatively. "And how would _you_ know? Have _you_ ever tasted the blood of innocent children?"

"N-no, of course not. Sh-Sherlock," John felt his back press against a wall. Sherlock cornered him.

"Hmm, you know, I think I might just be a _bit_ hungry after all," Sherlock had a strangely satisfied look on his face, his eyes bright and, well, hungry. "And your neck is looking _pretty_ good, John Watson." Sherlock was now pressed against John, his hands pinning him to the wall.

John wouldn't meet his eyes, his breathing escalating. "Sh-Sherlock, d-don't."

Sherlock leaned down and whispered in John's ear, his breath hot on sensitive skin. "Don't tease me, John. One day, I might just…" And Sherlock snapped his teeth together.

John gasped, expecting to feel fangs in his neck. Instead, he heard Sherlock laughing hysterically. John opened his eyes, only to find Sherlock in his armchair, laughing aloud. John thought he would be angry, but he was more surprised that his flatmate actually had a sense of humor. "Wait…so you're not…" he was trying to be angry, really he was, but he felt his face cracking into a smile.

Sherlock's laughter died down and he sipped his tea. "No, of course not. I was only joking."

"Really?"

"Well," Sherlock put down his tea and grabbed the plate of toast. Selecting a slice, he held it inches from his mouth. "Except the part about being hungry. I admit to being peckish," and looking at John pointedly, he took a large bite of toast.

John sighed in relief, feeling his heart rate return to normal. Then, he laughed a little.

Sherlock smiled. "What now?"

John chuckled. "I never knew the great Sherlock Holmes had a sense of humor."

Sherlock finished off his toast and shrugged. "You're never too smart to play a clever joke."

_A little drabble to begin my series of drabbles! Played with the vampire!Sherlock idea (it's not something I really want to write, but I had fun with this!). Let me know if you have any other little ideas that you'd like to see happen when Sherlock and John are "Off the Case!" _


	2. Nightmares

**Nightmares**

Things had been great. For the first couple of weeks, things had been perfect. John and Sherlock were inseparable, friends, colleagues, flatmates, and a perfect pair. Of course, neither of them thought that way about the other. But they were still friends. Almost like siblings, they understood each other perfectly, bounced off each other, cared for each other, whether it was direct or subtle.

And John's nightmares had gone away. John thought they'd gone away for good. Not so.

One night, John was dreaming something very pleasant. He was with Sherlock and they were on a case and Sherlock was being _brilliant_, fabulous, egotistical, as usual. And then Sherlock was running, running, and John couldn't keep up and suddenly, the streets of London fell away and turned into desert sand. And John was being yelled at. "Watson! Move your arse!" And the gun was heavy in his hand. And all his friends were dying, and no one was there. As he moved among the dead bodies, a blue scarf flew over the sands and came to rest on a dead body John didn't want to see—

John Watson shot up in bed, short of breath. He gasped, his hand on his chest, before flopping back down in his bed. It took him a while, took him almost half an hour, actually, to get his breath back to normal. And that's when he noticed the calm breathing of another human being.

"John?" Sherlock moved out of the shadows. He was fully dressed, his hair combed neatly, his eyes bright and wide and wet with worry. "John? Are you okay?"

John sighed. "Yeah, fine. Sorry, did I wake you?"

Sherlock blinked, then nodded slowly.

"I'm sorry," John apologized again, chuckling, trying to dispel the fear he still felt, the trembling in his limbs. "It's okay. Go back to sleep."

"Oh, I was only kipping," Sherlock dismissed, sitting on the bed without being invited to. His eyes shone in the darkness like a cat's, the pale color highlighting his worry. "And you're _not_ fine, John."

John blinked, and then sighed. He didn't dare ask how Sherlock knew things. He'd lived with the man long enough to know that. But he wasn't sure if Sherlock cared. "It's okay," he pushed Sherlock away angrily. "I'm fine. Get out."

Sherlock didn't move, although he did allow himself to be pushed. "I care," he whispered, folding his hands quietly. He sat patiently, staring at his knees, waiting for John to notice.

John growled. "_Out of my __**room**_, Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed and rose. "All right, there goes my excuse to eat for a week." He was about to leave.

John rolled his eyes. _Damn, he's clever!_ "All right, Sherlock, I believe you. Come back."

Sherlock sat slowly on the bed again, his face reading success. "I don't mean to manipulate you, John. I just want to help," he smiled shyly. "Isn't that what…friends do?"

John sat up and put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Yes, that's what friends do. And we're friends, right?"

Sherlock nodded. "Friends."

So John sat back and told Sherlock about his nightmares, both the one he had tonight and those he'd had in the past. Sherlock listened intently, his gaze never wavering, barely blinking, the concentration he afforded to a case. John for his part was amazed that Sherlock listened. When John was finished, Sherlock said nothing, nothing to explain the fears away, no smart-alec remark about post-traumatic stress. And that, somehow, was better than the alternative. So many people would explain away John's nightmares to him. He was a doctor—of course he knew about post-traumatic stress and _of course_ he knew that he had it. He wasn't stupid.

But Sherlock didn't say a word. Not for a long time. John had settled back into bed during the course of the conversation and was almost ready to drift off again. Sherlock uncrossed his legs, stretched his arms over his head with a grunt, not impatiently. "Tea?" He asked.

John blinked. "That sounds good." After a moment. "Don't put anything in it."

Sherlock, putting on his shoes, chuckled. "Only a tea bag. Promise." He stood up, stretching again. "Oh, and John?" His hand was on the doorknob.

"Yes, Sherlock?" John asked sleepily.

"Don't be afraid to tell me these things anymore," Sherlock replied. Then, he went downstairs.

John listened to him go, and realized that something within him had changed.

Yes, he felt…lighter. Like a weight had been lifted off his chest. Just talking to Sherlock about his nightmares had made him feel better, despite the fact Sherlock had nothing to say. John thought again that just listening seemed a better alternative than empty words. How could Sherlock be so cold and heartless one moment, and comforting and human the next? It amazed him.

When Sherlock returned, he only held one mug of tea, which he gave to John. Sherlock sat on the bed, watching John drink it.

"Are you going to stay until I fall asleep?" John teased.

"If you need me," Sherlock smiled.

"I don't need you," John responded harshly. Then, he said, a bit softer. "But you can stay. If you like." Sherlock bounced happily. "So," John smirked, "where's _your_ tea?"

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair. "I'll kip again if I drink anything warm until morning. That wouldn't do me any good if I'm going to protect you."

_If I'm going to protect you_. The words rang through John's head, long after his head had hit the pillow. As he drifted off to sleep, he felt Sherlock's weight sitting patiently on the bed.

And that, somehow, was the greatest comfort of all.


	3. The Adventure of the Domestic Detective

**The Adventure of the Domestic Detective**

"Sherlock! I'm back!" John walked into the flat and went into the kitchen where Sherlock was working on an experiment. He put the heavy shopping bags on the table, rattling Petri dishes and beakers.

"Watch it!" Sherlock snapped, looking up from his microscope. John shrugged and began to put away the shopping.

"Sorry. What _are_ you doing, anyway?"

"Playing around with tabun. It's a nerve agent, once used by Iraqis. Causes convulsions and paralysis." Sherlock took a syringe and tapped the edge of it against the bacteria under the microscope.

"That's great." John replied sarcastically, slamming the table.

"_Careful_," Sherlock hissed, tilting his head in agitation.

"What's your excuse for playing with chemical warfare _this_ time?"

"Oh, right, since you've seen chemical warfare up close and personal, you're nervous about it in the flat. Don't worry, I'm not going to experiment _on you_. As to the reason, I'm bored." Sherlock chewed on his upper lip. "Again."

"Sherlock, you can't just do things because you're bored. That's not a valid reason." John examined a cup sitting out on the counter and then made went about making some tea.

"No?" Sherlock actually looked up and leaned back against the counter on the other side of the kitchen, crossing his arms over his chest. "Then what _is_ a valid excuse? Enlighten me."

John was stumped a moment and then turned to face his flatmate and friend. "Well, I don't know! But it needs to be a better excuse than 'I'm bored.' I mean, I used that excuse when I was five."

Sherlock pushed himself off the counter, went back to work. "Did you have dinner yet?"

"No, I was going to make some pasta. Why?"

"Eating day. Need food." Sherlock adjusted the settings on his microscope. "Pasta will do, thanks."

John nodded, began to set up, stopped. "Remind me again how you survived on your own."

Sherlock chuckled. "Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft. Mrs. Hudson played mother and Mycroft forced me to eat every so often. Lestrade, too, if he saw I was fainting. What?" He looked up irritably at John, who was laughing.

"Right, right. Because you couldn't be domestic for a _week_!" John laughed loudly.

Sherlock frowned. "Don't be stupid! _Of course_ I can be 'domestic'!" He sniffed haughtily. "I just don't feel those things are necessary."

"I'll bet you ten pounds you can't do a week's worth of domestic chores!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. John raised his eyebrows.

"You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Holmes. 20 pounds."

"Oh _please_, John. Twenty pounds is hardly—"

"Okay, _fine_, fine," John pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'll pay _your_ half of the rent. If! If," he added when Sherlock looked intrigued (one might say 'excited'), "you can be domestic for a week."

Sherlock's mouth twitched into a smile. "You've got yourself a deal, John Watson," he held out his hand and John shook it. "Prepare to pay the rent. _All_ of it."

John snorted. "Yeah, okay, Sherlock. I'll believe it when I see it."

_Day 1_

"Sherlock, the dishes need washing."

"Yes, yes, in a minute," Sherlock was busy with an experiment.

"Part of being a domestic is _obeying_, Sherlock." John flapped his newspaper noisily.

Sherlock stopped his experiment and looked at the dishes piled in the sink. They really did need doing. "I've educated you on detecting," He walked to the front of the kitchen, hands on hips. "Why don't you tell me what I'm supposed to do as a domestic?"

John sighed, folding his paper. "Okay, I guess you've got me there. I'll give you some tips. First, if I tell you to do something, do it right away."

Sherlock nodded, taking mental notes. "Okay."

"Second, you have to clean up after yourself and me. Now, I don't do a lot of cleaning because you don't let me touch your stuff, so I'm not going to make you. But stuff like hanging up my coat if I forget, that I do for you, so you have to do it for me."

"I hang up my coat!" Sherlock argued.

"Nine times out of ten. I have to do it when you forget."

Sherlock backtracked through his mind, remembered several occasions where John had, in fact, hung up his coat, and nodded, leaning against the doorframe. "Got it."

"Third, you have to do the shopping and the dishes."

"That it?" Sherlock was formulating the recipe for a domestic into a chore schedule for himself.

"It wouldn't hurt to do your laundry. But that's not actually a domestic chore. That's a flatmate chore." John smiled. "Now, those dishes need washing. Get to it." And he reclined in his chair, turning on the telly.

Sherlock huffed and stomped over to the sink, rolling up his sleeves.

_Day 2_

"I'm hungry."

"I'm sorry, what?" John put down his book, his thumb marking his place, and looked at Sherlock.

"I'm hungry," Sherlock replied patiently. "I did the shopping and washed the dishes and hung up your coat. Now I'm hungry. Make me dinner."

John chuckled. "Oh, I forgot to tell you because we ordered take-away! Yeah, part of being a domestic is making dinner for your flatmate. _You_," he pointed at Sherlock for emphasis "have to make dinner."

"But—"

"If you want to eat," John lifted up his book again and continued reading, "_you_ have to make dinner."

Sherlock huffed, ran a hand through his dark curls, and then got up from his chair. He rummaged through the pantry, avoiding booby traps and poisoned things. "Arrgh, I only got milk when I was shopping!" He groaned, peering into the cupboards. "I don't suppose we can order take-away again."

"No," John replied. "We eat too much take-away as it is."

Sherlock had to grudgingly agree. Finally, he found something edible. Granted he had to cook it first, but cooking was simple chemistry. "Pasta with sauce all right?"

"Yeah, sounds good."

Within minutes, Sherlock had two plates of pasta with a generous amount of warm marinara sauce on top in his hands. He passed one to John and then sat in his chair. There was a moment of silence while the two hungry men ate their first bites.

"This is good!" John praised.

"Oh, it wasn't difficult, but thank you," Sherlock replied, twirling pasta around his fork.

"Don't get it on your shirt," John warned. Sherlock looked at him, and all it took was a twitch of the consulting detective's mouth for them both to collapse in a fit of giggles.

"Tea?" John asked after they'd calmed down. Sherlock nodded and obediently put his plate aside. He'd made tea, but had forgotten about it, his hands being full. He went into the kitchen, poured two cups, and returned. He gave a cup to John and then sipped his own.

"Two down, five to go," John said. Sherlock collected the dishes and washed them in the sink.

_Day 3_

Sherlock had gotten up early in order to do some shopping, but just as he was done putting away the groceries, he got a text from Lestrade about some paperwork for an old case. Sherlock reported to Scotland Yard and finished the paperwork. When he returned to the flat, he realized that it would be time for dinner soon. He unpacked what he'd got from the shop and prepared a meat and two vegetable dinner. Beef with white horseradish sauce, mashed potatoes, and carrots. He was just about to put it all together when John walked in the door, fresh from a long day at the surgery. Sherlock handed John a cuppa and hung up his coat for him. Then, he handed John his dinner. He realized with some amazement that he'd only made enough for his flatmate to eat.

Now Sherlock didn't mind, of course. The brain was what was important, after all, and everything else was just transport. He'd had dinner two day in a row and was more than fine for the rest of the week. But being domestic was hard work, and Sherlock actually found himself (to his great surprise) exhausted and hungry. He sat in his chair and tried very hard not to watch John eat, and tried even harder to not want what John had. After a few moments of watching crap telly alongside his flatmate, Sherlock went to go shower and change. Just as he was about to go to bed, his stomach growling despite all logical reasoning, John called him.

"Sherlock! Dishes!"

Sherlock sighed and washed the dishes.

"Thank you," John said, opening his computer.

Eve though it was only nine o'clock, Sherlock crawled into bed and quickly fell asleep.

_Day 4_

Sherlock was bored, so he mopped the kitchen floor, dusted the flat, and cleaned the windows. He worked on his blog a little while, then made rice and beans for John. He set it out so that John saw it when he came back from the surgery. Sherlock drank two cups of tea while updating his blog and then went to bed.

_Day 5_

Sherlock slept in and then did the dishes. John was home today, so Sherlock was stuck doing everything John wanted. It was annoying, but not impossible or unreasonable, but Sherlock gave up working and instead stared at his laptop screen until he had to make lunch or dinner. Sherlock played his violin way into the early hours of the morning, polished it, and then went to bed.

_Day 6_

Sherlock only slept three hours and was grumpy as a result. But he was determined not to lose the bet as a result of being overtired. He did the shopping and cooked for John and cleaned up after himself and John as well. After dinner was made, Sherlock fell asleep fully dressed on the couch. John let him sleep and did his own dishes as a favor to his flatmate.

_Day 7_

"When does the bet end, exactly?"

"What?"

Sherlock was dusting the mantle. John was reading the paper. It was around ten o'clock. John had gone to Speedy's for breakfast.

"The bet. Does it end this evening?"

"Oh, right, yeah. Well, I guess if you can make me a flawless dinner, I'll say you've won."

Sherlock smiled. "Easy bet, John." He sneezed because of the dust and then moved on.

"I didn't even ask you to dust, Sherlock," John said, amused.

"I know. But I'm bored. And I can't work."

"Ah."

Silence. Sherlock sneezed again and gave up with the dusting. He brought John a cuppa without asking and sat with his own in his chair. The two flatmates stared at each other.

"Well, I was wrong."

"Of course you were," Sherlock said into his cup.

John ignored him. "You're not such a bad domestic after all."

Sherlock offered a hard laugh. "Of course not, John! Being domestic isn't _that_ hard."

"You're right. I think I went too easy on you." John smiled. "I should really give you hell tonight."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"You're much worse than I am," John pointed out.

"Being in the military has given you a taste for simplicity. You ask for nothing more than you need. As do I."

"Yeah, but you need more."

"I'm a consulting detective. Our needs are different."

"I think if I did half of the things you do to make my life difficult, you would've pulled out your hair by now."

Sherlock scoffed. John snickered.

"Strand by strand."

Sherlock sighed. "I will concede I'm hard to live with. But you could just move out."

That silenced John for a while. Then, "But I won't."

"If you hate it…"

"You're my friend, Sherlock."

Sherlock blinked, and then tensed in his chair. "I'll try to make your role as a domestic easier." He slurped at his tea loudly.

John smiled, sipped his tea. He hadn't expected to lose the bet, nor had he expected Sherlock to learn something.

Everything went better than expected.


	4. Fragility

**Fragility**

One had to look closely to see any weakness in Sherlock Holmes. The consulting detective's genius and overwhelming ego pervaded his every action. But little things he did could be observed, if one cared to look closely enough.

For example, when he was hungry, Sherlock would slowly and contemplatively lick his lips in a slow circle, starting with the left corner of his upper lip and ending at the right corner of his lower lip. It was not to be confused with the quick wetting of lips that he did when in the heat of action. When he was tired, Sherlock would blink rapidly in succession and sometimes give a quick shake of his head. When Sherlock was feeling sick or put out, he would go quiet and very still, bowing his head and lowering or closing his eyes. His hands would fall to his sides and hang there limp by his hips. Somehow, this made the tall man look very, very small.

In the rare times when he was afraid, Sherlock would do nothing but talk—usually nonsense—in a high, concerned voice. When Sherlock was lonely, he would amuse himself with some complicated experiment, the long words and difficult phrases acting as the tears Sherlock had stopped crying long ago.

John Watson had come to slowly understand Sherlock's weaknesses. As a doctor, he was good at assessing people and coming to quick conclusions about their mental and physical health. His pride would never let him admit that he learned some of Sherlock's weaknesses only _after_ something negative had occurred, like the time Sherlock fainted after a criminal's arrest or the time when he ran to the toilet to puke before he even saw the body. But John would never admit, and didn't even think, that Sherlock was a fragile person. Sherlock wasn't even a normal person. Sherlock was a Sherlock: in a league of his own.

Even knowing all he did about his flatmate, John still jumped when he woke one morning to find Sherlock standing about six inches from his bed. The younger man was "half-dressed," meaning the suit jacket, coat, and scarf were absent. He was wearing a purple shirt and black dress pants, as per usual. But he was disheveled.

His shirt was rumpled and half untucked, his hair wild like he'd just crawled out of bed. His hands were cut and bloody, and there were a few scratches on his face. His eyes were bright, but the dark circles under them indicated tire. His lips were firm and set, but the corner of his mouth leaked blood. He looked at John, apparently unsurprised at John's reaction to his presence.

"Goddammit, Sherlock!" John breathed, calming himself down by pressing a hand to his chest. "You _scared _me, you git! How long have you been watching me sleep?"

Sherlock blinked but said nothing. His posture was stiff and unrelenting, much the way he had acted around Moriarty at the pool. He wasn't relaxed, out of his element, cleverness doing nothing for him now.

John sighed. "Okay, Sherlock. What's the matter?"

Sherlock stayed quiet, his bright eyes trained on John. The doctor couldn't quite figure out what Sherlock's silence was supposed to be telling him. John yawned and took a closer look. Sherlock's shoulders and hair were slightly damp, but there was no mud on his trousers or his shoes.

"You were out last night, I see," John observed. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, his eyes amused. John took that to mean he was on the right track. "Injured a bit," he indicated Sherlock's mouth. "You don't just _let_ someone slug you in the mouth. You were caught off guard." Sherlock did that thing where he became limp and small. Except he didn't look ashamed of himself or terribly sick.

He looked like a porcelain doll. Every feature painted, breakable. Fragile.

John started from the sheer shock of it. "Who hit you?" He asked softly.

Sherlock slowly lifted his head as John stood, his eyes soft and sad. John slowly pushed him towards the door. "C'mon, you. I have to get dressed." Sherlock shook his head and strode across the room to the window. He wasn't leaving. John sighed. "Okay, then." He began to dress. "You're impossible, you know that?" The doctor could almost _feel_ Sherlock smiling.

"Okay," John said at length after he'd dressed and brushed his teeth. "Who stole your voice, Sherlock?"

Sherlock turned from the window and shook his head. "No. Still got your voice, then?" Sherlock nodded. "You just won't talk." Sherlock shook his head. "Why?" Sherlock thought about this one and then shrugged. "You don't know." Sherlock blinked. "Well, this helps. At least text me. I hate it when you leave me out of things." John took his phone and waved it sarcastically at Sherlock. Then, he went downstairs to make tea and toast. Sherlock followed.

"If you're off the case, you should really be sleeping, you know," John went on, uneasily. It was a bit unnerving, having Sherlock so damn quiet. "And eating, too." Toast popped out of the toaster. John buttered it and walked into the other room, holding it out for Sherlock. "Here. Eat." But Sherlock shook his head. John withdrew the plate. "Feel sick?" Sherlock never ate when he was sick. John checked Sherlock's temperature with the back of his hand. "No fever. Nauseous?" Sherlock rolled his shoulders: yes and no. "There must be a good reason you're not talking." John took out his phone and placed it on the arm of the chair. "Tell me."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, pointed at his coat. John looked. "Yeah, your coat. And?" Sherlock pointed at John's phone. John sighed and retrieved Sherlock's phone. Sherlock began typing. John's phone buzzed.

_Thanks. –SH_

"I'm right here. You don't have to identify yourself."

More typing. _I was attacked._

"Are you all right?"

Sherlock hesitated. _Yes_.

"No you're not. You're not speaking."

_Don't want to speak_.

"Do you want tea?"

_No_.

"You look like you need sleep."

_I'm fine_.

John shook his head. "You don't look 'fine' to me. Please talk to me, Sherlock."

Sherlock got up and picked up his violin. He plucked at the strings a little before sitting down again, the instrument in his lap. "Okay, John," he said, his voice quiet. "I couldn't sleep, so I climbed up to the roof and jumped to the next one and traveled that way. I—I wasn't _physically_ attacked…" He hesitated. "I bit my tongue and it bled a little."

John leaned back in his chair, happy to hear his best friend's voice again. "Are you okay?" He asked again.

"Of course," Sherlock replied, but he was lying. John saw his body go small and limp. And again, John thought that Sherlock looked fragile.

"You had a nightmare," John concluded.

Sherlock nodded. "I couldn't save you, John. You died." He looked away. "I was alone."

John smiled. "But I'm alive," he comforted, knowing how powerful nightmares can be. "And you're not alone. Okay? Now, how about some breakfast? Hmm?" He handed Sherlock the toast again and went into the kitchen to prepare tea.

He was relieved when he heard Sherlock bite into the toast noisily. It meant that things were back to normal.

Except John had learned that, for all his strength and ego and genius, Sherlock was just as fragile as everyone else.

And maybe, just maybe, Sherlock had a reason to hide his fragility.


	5. The Adventure of Radio Silence

**The Adventure of Radio Silence**

_Requested by Jenna Yemowa_

"Sherlock, why?"

"Um," The consulting detective was looking sheepish, and John relished that look on his face. It wasn't very often that the great Sherlock Holmes admitted to being, well, wrong. "It was an experiment, John."

Of course, John was pissed, so he couldn't quite properly relish Sherlock's guilt. "Yeah, and obviously it was successful because _our phones don't work_!"

Sherlock bit his lower lip and ruffled his curls in his hands. "I know! I was bored, all right? I wanted to see if electronic devices had any sort of protection against extensive water damage!" He was shouting angrily, getting up from his chair and gesticulating. "What do you want me to say? Sorry? I'm _sorry_?"

"Apologizing _won't help_, you bloody git!" John's hand tore through his blonde hair, his mouth a horrid scowl. Sherlock was still pacing like a caged lion. "And now _how_ are we supposed to _contact people_ and—"

"Oh, calm _down_, John!" Sherlock growled, opening his laptop. "We still have email. I'll call Mycroft and have him get us new phones. Where's the landline?"

"Who the hell knows in _this_ mess!" John kicked at a stack of folders sitting neatly by Sherlock's chair, which collapsed, papers sliding demurely out of them.

"Please don't kick my things, John," Sherlock replied absently, typing rapidly on his computer. He got up after a few moments and dug around for a bit until he found the landline. John threw himself into his armchair and gripped at his now useless water-damaged phone. Sherlock dialed his brother's cell phone and waited impatiently. He saw John sulking in his chair and sighed. "Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?" John snapped.

"Like you're going to _kill_ me, or something." Sherlock replied, the fingers of his unoccupied hand absently tapping against his bent elbow.

"I really do _want_ to kill you, Sherlock. I can't just _buy_ a new phone on an army pension!"

"Relax! That's why I'm calling Mycroft! Now, go have some boring breakfast, or something," Sherlock made a shooing motion with his hand. John went to make tea and scramble eggs. Well, there was little else he could do. He overhead Sherlock talking to Mycroft, the crisp sound of his dress shoes ringing in the relatively quiet flat. "I need a new phone." How very like Sherlock to make demands without even saying so much as a 'hello.' John snickered. "John needs one, too." A pause. "None of your business why!" John could almost hear Mycroft's disapproving voice, could almost see the put-upon face, the raised eyebrows indicating impatience. "_I don't care_ if the Queen _herself_ has to do a cartwheel! Get us phones! _Immediately_!" Sherlock hung up and threw the phone at the couch before throwing himself onto his chair, his feet tapping anxiously on the carpet.

John, now considerably more relaxed (to be fair, a cell phone was a small casualty in the frankly dangerous atmosphere of 221B), sat in the armchair across from Sherlock, a warm plate filled with scrambled eggs and toast and sausage sitting comfortably in his lap. He began to eat a little, and eventually, Sherlock watched him.

"Food calms you, doesn't it?"

John swallowed his eggs before speaking. "What?"

"Food," Sherlock cocked his head a bit, leaning forward until his elbows were resting on his knees. His hands were clasped, his mouth touching them when at rest. "It seems to calm you when you're mad."

John shrugged. "Yeah, I suppose so."

"Why?"

"Well," John examined his toast as if he were afraid Sherlock might've done something unpleasant to it in the few minutes it had been in his presence. "I guess being peckish will make anyone irritable. Besides, I like breakfast foods." And he bit into his toast happily.

Sherlock sat back. "Hm. I think I'm the exception to that rule."

"Only on a case. You get pretty pissy when you're hungry otherwise."

"I do not!" Sherlock seemed seriously offended, as if John was accusing him of some far greater offense than being a little grumpy.

"Yeah, you do."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Sherlock," John reasoned, laughing. "You just threw the phone at the couch."

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest and closed it again all in one second. Then, he tossed his head proudly. "It's not connected to me being hungry, John." Sherlock explained in his know-it-all voice. "I'm as frustrated as you are about not having any phone. It's irritating!" He growled, throwing his head back against the armchair. "What if we had a _case_, John?"

John smiled around his sausage. "You might've thought of that _before_ you gave them a nice soak."

Sherlock mumbled, which sounded for a second like he was mocking John. Then he sighed and his hands gradually found their way to his face. He hid beneath them, breathing calmly and coolly.

"When are we supposed to have our new phones, anyway?" John asked.

"Mycroft should have them by the end of the day," Sherlock replied with a yawn. "I don't suspect he'll deliver them _personally_, but we can expect no less from the British government."

John chuckled lightly. "You should have some breakfast, Sherlock."

"Mmmm…not hungry," Sherlock replied, grabbing his laptop in a burst of speed and bringing it to his lap. He stared at it for a moment before typing away at hyper speed.

"I don't care," John pushed Sherlock's laptop screen down.

"Hey!" Sherlock hissed. "I was _typing_, you know!"

"You're not on a case." John continued as if he hadn't been interrupted just now. "I'm still your doctor, you know. I don't care if you're not hungry. _You need food_!"

Sherlock opened his laptop again. "Maybe, but it can wait _20 minutes_ while I _type_ an email! God!" And he pulled his face into a very put-upon looking mask, similar to the look his own brother very often gave him.

John nodded, satisfied, and turned on the telly. After a few minutes, Sherlock stomped into the kitchen and came back with a banana. Sherlock sat down in his chair, peeled it, and began to eat it grudgingly.

After a few moments, Sherlock swallowed. "John?"

"Hm?"

"Want to come with me to the Yard?"

"Why?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Dunno."

John shrugged right back. "Okay. I'll get my jacket."

Sherlock smiled and once they'd both put on their coats, they were off.

John didn't know what Sherlock was up to. He sort of sniffed around the morgue a bit and then talked to Lestrade in his office upstairs. He filled out some paperwork for Lestrade and they talked for a bit about forgeries. Sherlock successfully forged both Lestrade's and John's signatures before writing a short note that could've come right from Mycroft Holmes. Then, he dragged John out and they went back home.

Around teatime, Mrs. Hudson brought up a package. Inside were two phones identical to the ones Sherlock had destroyed. John's even had the engraving on the back. When they'd both turned on their new phones and settled into their dinner, John finally realized what Sherlock had done.

His phone buzzed. It was a text from Lestrade.

_Hello. –SH_

John looked up to see his flatmate grinning like a madman, delicately twirling his spaghetti on his fork. John smiled despite himself. "You didn't."

Sherlock held up Lestrade's phone. "Picked it off him while his back was turned."

John snorted. "You have to return it."

Sherlock nearly laughed the spaghetti right out of his mouth. "Scotland Yard's closed now, John. It'll have to wait till tomorrow."

John sighed. "Yeah. Just don't test _this_ one for water damage, huh?"

"Oooh, good idea!" Sherlock said cheerily.

John smacked his forehead with his palm for even _suggesting_ such a thing.

Fortunately for Lestrade, he got his phone back. But he wasn't too happy when he saw the bill a few months later.

To his credit, Sherlock paid back every pound.

_I hope this pleases you! Sorry it took me so long, Jenna! This looked soooo much better in my head! Tootles! -SH_


	6. The Adventure of the Little Black Dog

**The Adventure of the Little Black Dog**

If you ask Sherlock Holmes why his ears are so attuned to noise—and not just _any_ noise, mind you, because London is noisy enough for ten thousand finely tuned ears, thank you, but noise that certainly doesn't belong— he will tell you "I don't know."

And then, a second later, once he realizes what he's just said, he will snap: "None of your business!" And walk out, slamming the door behind him so that everything rattles on its places on the shelves.

But if you visit him again, after he's just solved a _brilliant_ (that is to say "exhausting" in Sherlock code) case, when he's a little tired and a lot hungry and you bring him a nice, warm, sweet little Bakewell tart, and maybe bring Mrs. Hudson along just in case, he will finish the tart, lick his long fingers contemplatively, and tell you, his cold eyes unusually soft, "Because I'm a consulting detective. The only one in the world."

Now, of course, that last answer means nothing more and nothing less than "I have no idea." This is the reason that Sherlock usually gives for traits in himself that logic can't explain. And his acute hearing for out-of-place sounds just happened to be one of those traits that Sherlock couldn't explain.

Well, Sherlock and John had returned to their flat three hours and ten minutes ago from one of those truly _brilliant_ cases which had taken a record of thirteen days to complete. Both men were exhausted, although, as anyone who knows even a little bit about Sherlock Holmes is aware of, Sherlock was far more exhausted and in fact hungrier than he dared to acknowledge. John knew from the glazed eyes and the sunken cheeks and the faint lines of rib shadows visible through his shirt when he stretched that Sherlock was starving. But he was too tired to say anything.

Actually, that's a lie, because he did _try_. He got as far as: "Sherlock, you _need_ to—" but Sherlock rudely pushed-shoved-goddamn _forced_ his flatmate up the stairs to his room, exhibiting a surprising amount of strength. One would not expect Sherlock, less than 10 and a half stone thanks to the recent caseload and underweight by about 2 stone, to be able to push John, at 11.5 stone, up the stairs to his room. Never mind that, you know, John is more than a bit stronger than our favorite lean, lanky, altogether _way_ too skinny consulting detective.

But push-shove-force him up the stairs Sherlock did, and John Watson, mumbling his protests, soon found himself sound asleep. Sherlock, just three hours and ten minutes ago, had leaned against the doorframe, pressing his cool palms into his temple to try and dispel a headache, which, John would've told him had he been lucid, was from low blood sugar, as (you may already be well aware of) Sherlock had ingested nothing over thirteen days but three cups of coffee and ten cups of tea, all of which were taken with two sugars.

Sherlock, too tired to do much, slunk downstairs and stumbled into his bedroom. He'd undressed but hadn't re-dressed in his pajamas and instead was now sleeping mostly naked. And he'd been having a good sleep, too. Until an odd noise had reached his eardrums.

_Scritch, scritch, scritch. Scritch. Scritch, scritch._

Sherlock groaned and pulled the sheet up over his head. He didn't want to realize that he was awake. He was _way_ too tired.

_Scritch. Scritch. Scritch._

The noise was like the claws or nails of some small animal on wood. It was far away, down at the entrance of 221 B. Well, the tiny little animal could go to hell. Sherlock was in no mood for—

_Scritch, scritch, scritch, scritch, scritch_.

"Oh for God's sake," Sherlock growled, crawling out from under his sheet, the chill of the early (_far_ too early; Sherlock groaned) morning air giving his bare body goosepimples. He pulled on his warm, winter robe and tied it tight about his waist. Then, he stumbled groggily out of his room, yawned, stretching his long arms up above his head (one would have seen rib shadows, even in the dim lightning, through the plush fabric). He scratched himself rather indecently for half a second, and then went downstairs. He opened up the door, about to shoo whatever it was away. But what he saw intrigued him.

It was a small black stray. Sherlock's over-active mind rushed to deductions: _female, breed unidentifiable because of matting, no diseases, friendly, probably wants food, will allow you to pick it up._ The small black dog wagged its tail. Or, _her_ tail, as it was female. Sherlock curiously stretched out both hands to lift the dog into his arms. It had been a long time since he'd felt the compulsion to carry a small animal, never mind feed a stray. But, perhaps because he was so tired and hungry himself (his stomach had begun to growl as soon as he'd stretched), he felt compassion for the small animal.

The dog, as he expected, eagerly accepted his hands around it. Sherlock felt the malnourishment beneath its fur and was as gentle as he could be in picking her up. The dog licked his cheek in greeting and thanks. Sherlock chuckled, turning his face away. He chanced to put a hand on the dog's small head, and found that his palm and fingers rested very neatly there. The curve of the dog's head allowed his hand purchase…as if two puzzle pieces were aligning. Sherlock's heart warmed. "Hmm…how is it that your head…is designed to fit my hand?" he asked, feeling a satisfied smile cross his face.

When John woke up that morning, he found Sherlock in the kitchen, talking…to himself?

"Gah! _Stop shaking like that_, will you? Hold still, now… Ouch! You mustn't do that. Bad. Bad girl."

"Sherlock…?" John yawned, wondering if perhaps Sally Donovan had been right after all, and that Sherlock had finally gone insane.

"Oh, hi, John. Ouch!" Sherlock drew his hand away from whatever it was in the sink. "No. No, you _don't bite_." He waited. "Good girl." And the hand, which, John realized, was holding a small black comb, descended again.

"What _are_ you doing?" John asked, looking over Sherlock's elbow. "Oh my—"

Inside the sink, besides a mess of black fur, was a small dog. Apparently, Sherlock had chopped off matted layer of fur after matted layer, producing a dog with a long snout and elegant legs for one so small. There was a little tail which Sherlock hadn't gotten to yet. Right at the moment, it seemed, he was trying to comb out the dog's long ears. "Sherlock…" John began slowly, "what _is _that _thing_?"

"It's a dog, John. I'd say puppy, but I don't imagine she's _that_ young, going by her behavior—ouch!" The dog had just snapped at him again. He glared, and the small dog bowed her head in shame. John almost felt sorry for the poor animal. "I'd say poodle, given the appearance. I don't need to mention that it's obviously not of the large variety."

"Okay…" John ran a hand through his hair. Sherlock wasn't insane, obviously, but as he watched the tall man gently lifting the dog from the sink, watched him laugh as the dog licked his face, watched him actually nuzzle his nose into the dog's cheek…well, it made him wonder. Wasn't there something, in psychology or something, that said people who didn't get along well with other people got on better with animals? In other words, John had never seen Sherlock care this much about anything living (excluding John), female or otherwise. "But it's a stray—or it was. Did you check it for diseases?"

"She." Sherlock replied, holding the small dog skillfully under one arm while passing John to go to the refrigerator.

"Huh?"

"_She_. It's a female dog, John."

"Right, she. Is _she_ a disease-ridden stray?" John meant it as a jest, a tease against Sherlock's cat-like personal hygiene. But he was rebuked by the stare Sherlock gave him.

It was an irritated glare, usually reserved for those who annoyed him the most (Anderson, notably), and with the recent weight loss and apparent lack of sleep, it seemed even more frightening. "Yes." He replied, his teeth setting in anger and annoyance. "Vaccinated her myself earlier." Then, he turned his attention to the plate in his unoccupied hand, putting it in the microwave. "It's likely she'll have to go to the veterinarian, anyway, though. She needs heartworm medication, and possibly ear drops. Poodles are susceptible to ear infections due to their, well, ears," Sherlock sort of indicated the black dog's ears. She bared her teeth at him, but he tapped her nose with two fingers and she fell quiet. "I've already found a suitable clinic. I'll be taking her later."

"Don't think you can take her in a cab, Sherlock."

Sherlock grinned, and John wished he hadn't given the detective any ideas. "Watch me." He removed the plate from the microwave and put the dog down. "Sit." He told the dog absently. The dog sat. Sherlock lifted a piece of ham (oh. Leftovers, courtesy of Mrs. Hudson. England certainly _would_ fall without her—there was no doubt that at the very least, a certain underweight consulting detective would fall, if she left Baker Street), brought it to his lips, and ate it. Then, he gave a bit to the dog. They went on like this for a bit, John a little shocked to see Sherlock eating.

And then not shocked at all. Thirteen days, and the consulting detective had once again dropped weight. Once again, he was thin enough that rib shadows ghosted through his clothes, his face thin and wiry, the cheekbones more deadly with each lost pound. John had to hold back a chuckle; if the dog could make Sherlock listen to his growling stomach (John could hear it from where he stood), then it—she—was welcome to stay.

_And that, my dears, is how Sherlock adopted a poodle! I've got lots more planned for the little "p" in 221B, so if you'd like to see more of our fuzzy little friend in the future, please let me know! You all should know that this story is slightly inspired by art I saw of John and Sherlock as dogs—Sherlock had been a poodle. And, hey, it fits. You can't deny that :). Also, most of the dog's actions are inspired by my own little sweetheart of a miniature poodle, Miss Arielle Simone. Of course, mine is white and Sherlock's is black…go figure._

_This also breaks the pattern of Angst-Light short stories in "Off the Case!" If you look back, I've tried to keep a steady pattern: Lighter fics are called "The Adventure of such and such" and the darker fics are one-word titles. Which is okay, just thought I'd let you know._

…_I am SO much more a Capricorn than I think I am.-SH_


	7. Dangerous

**Dangerous**

"_He's a psychopath. Psychopaths get bored."_

"_And I said 'dangerous' and here you are."_

John Watson knew all about dangerous.

Fighting in a war where you could get shot and killed was dangerous. Being anywhere near noxious gas was dangerous. Suffocation was dangerous. _People_ were dangerous, people with anger and hatred.

Sherlock Holmes was not dangerous.

Oh, sure, things _associated_ with Sherlock Holmes were dangerous. Murderers and explosions, fires and tempers and blindly being dragged into situations where they could both be killed. But the man? This "high functioning sociopath?" Not dangerous.

Sherlock talked big, acted big, did big things, and this was in no way, shape, or form fake. John would never believe that. No evidence would make him believe it, no bribe could force him to say it. Everything Sherlock did was genuine. That's why John was reflecting on the harsh words of Sally Donovan, finding them very hard to believe right now.

"_He doesn't get paid or anything. He likes it. And one day, showing up won't be enough. One day, we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will have put it there."_

John shook his head, smiling. No way. No, no, no way in heaven or hell was Sherlock capable of being dangerous. Not in that sense.

If you were looking at what John was looking at right now, you wouldn't have believed Sally Donovan, either. And this is why.

Sherlock Holmes. Sleeping.

The younger man was half-curled into the couch cushions, his head resting upon his union jack pillow, curls nestled neatly on his head, encircling it like a halo. His eyes were peacefully closed in rest, pale cupid's bow lips parted about the width of a fingernail, lying on one arm. The other lay at rest inches from his chest. He'd fallen asleep without his jacket or shoes on, wearing a shirt that wasn't so tight on him, his pants sagging around his hips (seriously, did the man _ever_ eat a proper meal?).

(_Well_, John thought, _even when I __**make**__ him eat, he __**still**__ seems deadly thin!_)

So, Sherlock Holmes? Dangerous? John Watson laughed at anyone who could think that. He was standing over Sherlock, just in awe of his flatmate. This man who could fill a room with his intellect and powerful, commanding voice was occupying the couch. Napping. Not thinking or languidly mourning boredom. Sleeping peacefully, maybe even dreaming a little.

John found himself just a little bit entranced, amazed, dumbfounded. This side of Sherlock was such a harsh contrast compared to the man who had taken down men twice his size in a boxing ring, fought criminals for a living, swung from fire escapes, solves crime better than any policeman. Right now, he looked about as dangerous as a kitten.

John jumped when Sherlock stretched and woke up. John had gone out to get the milk and had returned to find Sherlock asleep, so the consulting detective, assuming he'd fallen asleep within a minute, had only been sleeping for about twenty minutes. After so many exhausting cases in the weeks previous, he should be sleeping for a much longer time.

Sherlock propped himself up on his elbow and yawned, stretching his free arm up over his head. "Why were you watching me sleep?" He demanded, the command hard to detect through his apparent grogginess. Yes, he _needed_ the sleep. Sherlock was very good at waking up on the spot. Only when he was truly tired did sleep linger.

John was still taken aback. "I—sorry, I didn't mean to wake you. I was just thinking."

Sherlock sat up, bending over backwards just slightly. The shirt hitched up, giving a glimpse of pale white skin, and as the fabric stretched, faint rib shadows ghosted against it. "You didn't wake me," he explained. "It was about time I got up, anyway. Hadn't meant to drift off." He exhaled, settled into the back of the couch lazily. "What were you thinking about?"

John smiled, gave a shake of his head. "You know."

"Oh, I could certainly find out. I'd rather you tell me."

John had turned his back on Sherlock, about to go over to his chair, but Sherlock's words made him pause. Sherlock hadn't, though, and had picked up a magazine that was lying on the coffee table. He began to page through it absently. John turned just in time to see him yawn again and rub his eye like a sleepy child.

"You want me," John began. Sherlock looked up eagerly. "To tell _you_, the man who knows everything about a man from a _single_ glance, what I'm thinking?"

"Problem?" Sherlock asked genuinely, running a hand through his curls.

John sat heavily in his chair. "I was thinking about…you being dangerous."

Sherlock put aside his magazine and leaned forward. "You think I'm dangerous?" He seemed serious, truly wanting to know. John thought about the loneliness he imagined Sherlock had experienced all his life and decided to be gentle with his next words.

"Yes." That wasn't gentle at all. "Well, no. I was thinking that you _aren't_ dangerous."

"Oh?" Sherlock leaned back again and put his legs up onto the coffee table, crossing his ankles. He seemed innocently intrigued.

"Yeah. People think you are. But nobody knows you like I do."

"Oh, yes, well, I knew that," Sherlock dismissed with a wave of his hand, leaning over towards the far end of the couch, retrieving some nicotine patches. He crossed his legs and set the patches on his knee, rolling up his sleeve as he talked. "People fear what they don't understand."

John nodded. "Yeah, that's true. So, tell me something."

"Hmm?"

"Why don't I fear you?"

Sherlock, his head bent over the patches, looked up through dark curls at his flatmate. He knew he was really referring to their first meeting, and he had to backtrack through his mind to find the emotions he'd read in the army doctor. He sat back a bit as he applied the nicotine patches to his arm, sighing deeply. He didn't have to close his eyes to remember, but he did. The blonde hair cut short and crisp said military background, skin tanned, frown lines and crow's feet darting the face. The dark blue eyes that burned through sincerity to the absolute center of a person. That sort of deduction was different from the deduction he did. John knew what ailed a man before he _himself_ knew! Right now, Sherlock wanted to see if John knew him well enough to interpret his needs, but as he was used to deprivation, he let it by. His mind went back to John's question.

"Because you trust me."

John thought maybe Sherlock had forgotten about his question, but he was happy to be having this conversation again. He put down the paper and shifted so that he was facing Sherlock. "Yes, I do."

"You trust people too easily," Sherlock replied, sucking on his lip. "You thought maybe you wouldn't anymore, but then you placed your trust in me. Not all of it. Not right away. You waited. But…" The consulting detective grinned. "I said 'dangerous' and here you are."

John nodded, not surprised at all that the man had hit the nail on the head. "You're right," he sighed, running a hand through crisp blonde hair. Hair that had grown out a bit since his return home. "I trusted you easily. I don't know why. You made me feel…secure, I guess. Grounded. Whole. If that doesn't sound gay, or anything."

"Not at all. I understand completely what you mean." Sherlock stretched again. "You don't think I'm dangerous?"

"No."

"Why?"

John laughed, thinking about seeing Sherlock fast asleep. "Because you're like a kid, Sherlock." Sherlock wasn't expecting that answer. He stiffened, alert and listening even more intently than before. "You trusted me, too, and I have a feeling you trusted a lot of people before they walked out of your life."

Sherlock nodded. "As I said, people fear what they don't understand."

"Exactly."

"But…you understand me."

"To a point, yeah," John scratched his neck. "You baffle me sometimes, Sherlock, but I know you're not dangerous."

"What makes you so sure?" Sherlock retorted angrily, taking John aback. "I _could_ go out and kill, erase it from my memory, and hire myself to solve the crime! I'd be _the best_ criminal in London! I'd be _unstoppable_." He eyed John with stern, ice cold beauties. "I could kill you quite easily, John. There's enough chemicals in this fat to murder an elephant. You trust me. You'd never suspect."

John laughed again. Sherlock jumped, taken aback. "Sherlock!" John chuckled. "I mean what I say! You're _not_ dangerous! You _could_ do all those things, but you _won't_!"

"Who's to say I won't?"

John smiled. "I say. Because you've got a heart, Sherlock."

"Of course I have one."

"That's not what I mean and you know it."

Silence. Sherlock ghosted silently to stand towering over John. "You…" He swallowed nervously. "You really think I have a heart?"

"Of course." John replied. "You care about me and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and Molly and everybody. You care. You just don't show it all the time. You're too busy acting tough."

Sherlock sighed weakly then fell into his chair. John looked up, startled, to find Sherlock looking very pale and faint. John rolled his eyes.

"When's the last time you ate properly?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose as if smelling something unpleasant. "Oh God," he murmured, "I can't remember."

John clicked his tongue in scolding. "You git. No wonder you're so pale."

Sherlock groaned softly and closed his eyes. He heard John working to prepare food in the kitchen. His stomach growled hungrily when he smelled the faint scent of boiling pasta.

"See?" John said.

"See what?" Sherlock asked, sitting up weakly.

"You're not dangerous," John chuckled. "You don't eat enough to actually _do_ anything."

Sherlock laughed. "I suppose. Pasta ready yet?"


	8. The Adventure of the Hunger Question

**The Adventure of the Hunger Question**

John had to catch Sherlock right after a case. And it had to be an exhausting case, but not one where Sherlock would feel inclined to eat or sleep right away.

It has been said many times (and I'm sure by now, you are tired of hearing about it) that Sherlock never eats or sleeps while on cases. This is absolutely true. Sherlock will go without for as long as the case lasts. His transport will keep him in excellent condition until the murderer is caught. Not once will he succumb to weakness while he is on a case. Unless, of course, it's only for a few minutes if he gets strangled or punched somewhere that isn't very pleasant to get punched.

Now, after a case, one of three scenarios will happen. The first scenario is that Sherlock will, often without warning, lead them to an open restaurant. There, he will devour his first meal (his first _food_) in as many days and then, after John is finished eating, will lead them back to the flat and fall asleep immediately. The second scenario involves Sherlock simply leading them home and then collapsing from exhaustion, either in his own bed or on the couch. The third scenario is a trip straight home, where Sherlock will sit up and think for a while, ignoring tire and hunger for as long as he chooses (but _never_ for the rest of the night), dozing at some later time. It had to be a case in the third scenario for John to properly pose the questions he wanted to ask.

Sherlock often bucked violently against anything close to a personal interview, but would relent if he was tired, hungry, or both. Although, if food or bed were before him, he would ignore John (or anyone else) in favor of gratification. Which is why the perfect time to confront him with personal questions was when he was starving himself. And I say this, because Sherlock can actually _feel_ it now.

Tonight had been one of those cases. Eight days, Sherlock had gone without a wink of sleep, a bite of food. It had been a kidnapping—multiple kidnappings—and time had been of the essence. A husband and wife pair had just been apprehended earlier tonight, and John guessed they'd been home for about half an hour, Sherlock just sitting in his chair, lost in thought, his chin on his knees, his arms wrapped around his bony shins. John was making a sandwich for dinner, in order to tide himself over until breakfast the next morning. But he felt guilty about it as he sat in his chair, his flatmate staring off into space, still as a marble statue and just as pale. He set the plate down and off to the side, cleared his throat, and tried an experiment of his own.

"How do you do it?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock's eyes flickered to John, losing their fatigued glaze in favor of sharp intelligence and thought.

"How do you…" John hesitated, trying to word the question the way he wanted to, "…starve yourself on cases?" Okay, that wasn't _actually_ how he'd wanted it to come out, but he hoped the weary detective would just roll with the punches.

To John's relief, Sherlock did. "Starve?" He yawned. "It's not really starving. It's just…putting off something unnecessary." He lifted his chin off his knees and stretched a little.

"Whatever you call it," John said gently, with a hint of impatience. "How do you do it?"

Sherlock smirked. "Willpower. Why would I waste time eating while on a case? It would send the blood to my stomach for digestion, instead of to my brain for thinking. That would be quite unwise, don't you think?"

"You've just been eight days without eating. Tell me how wise that is."

"Well, I only starve on a case." Without realizing it, Sherlock had used John's word. The army doctor gave a silent cheer inside his head. Sherlock was tired enough to speak freely. "The moment I do at any other time, you have my permission to admit me to hospital."

John was loathe to point this out, but it was irresistible. "You're going to regret you said that in the morning."

Sherlock blinked in surprise, crossing his arms and leaning them against his thighs. "Most likely." He yawned again.

"But, isn't the _hunger_ distracting?" John asked. "I mean, I can barely _function_ without a meal! I don't understand how you can go without, and _still_ do amazing things!"

Sherlock seemed to be thinking. Then, he ran a hand through his curls absently and heaved a sigh. "Yes. Sometimes, it _is_ distracting," he admitted. John was stunned into silence, listening intently. "Hunger is not an easy thing to beat, for anyone. I do have times where I struggle, where I'm reluctantly conscious that I have ingested nothing but tea, where my stomach growls, particularly after I do something 'amazing'," He smiled faintly, and John remembered, back to several times when he _had_ heard a faint growl from Sherlock's stomach after he'd jumped across a rooftop or sparred with a criminal. But he couldn't remember seeing a weakness in Sherlock's eyes. "But I'm an ascetic man," Sherlock went on, and John noted that his voice had been soft and slow and deep this whole time. "If I let myself be bothered, then London wouldn't be very safe, now would it?" He chuckled. "The police force certainly worry about their stomachs. It seems to me Lestrade is always eating."

John smiled. "Well, keeping your strength up is important."

"Maybe," Sherlock conceded. "But I can't eat when I'm hot on the trail, anyway. I'm much too excited to see the outcome my brilliance leads me to."

John laughed. "You're conceited!"

Sherlock smiled, giving his head a little shake. "Hardly. I'm proud of what I can do."

"And that includes starving yourself?"

"Hmm, yes."

The two men looked at each other and then burst out laughing. Sherlock finally uncurled, and stretched his legs out towards John's chair, sinking down in order to sit comfortably. John pulled his plate into his lap and took a huge bite out of his sandwich. Sherlock folded his hands across his chest and closed his eyes. John didn't miss the tip of his tongue as it snakes out to wet his pale lips.

He chuckled. "And now?"

Sherlock shifted slightly and yawned again. "A little tired. Mostly hungry." He waved one of his hands around a bit abstractly. "My stomach growled pretty loudly when we went to collect the children. Think I may have frightened them a bit."

John snorted, his mouth full of sandwich, remembering. "I _wondered_ why they were staring!"

Sherlock giggled a bit. "Now you know."

There was silence in the flat as John ate happily and Sherlock relaxed, probably thinking. Then, the detective's stomach growled fiercely. Sherlock covered his stomach, embarrassed.

John laughed. "Just eat, Sherlock. We've got sandwich supplies."

"Hmm," Sherlock seemed to consider this. "Maybe I will." He got up fluidly and went into the kitchen.

"Sherlock?" John called.

"Hmm?"

"My next question is about sleep!"

Sherlock snorted. "Oh, dull, John."

"Fine, fine. Eat your sandwich."

Sherlock dove into his chair happily, a sandwich in his hands. "Don't mind if I do," he said hungrily, as he bit into the crisp, white bread and the delicious, smoky ham.

After all, taste is an important sense, too.


	9. The Adventure of the Abnormal Rescue

**The Adventure of the Abnormal Rescue**

_Requested by RavenWing333_

It wasn't often that going to work at the surgery could make John Watson so depressed. But that had changed today.

Since taking up a civilian practice, John had seen every patient under the sun, from children to the elderly. He was used to caring for harsh wounds, not colds, fevers, and the flu. But the lack of excitement at the surgery was not the reason for his depression.

Sherlock looked up from a book when John entered the flat and sank down into his chair. The detective yawned before staring intently at his friend. John stared right back, too depressed to even try to stop Sherlock from figuring him out.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked finally.

John should've been proud Sherlock was learning social cues, but he sighed and brushed it off instead. "You know it already."

"Yes I do. But I'd like to know if I'm right." _Curse_ the infuriating man! He'd just brushed off a brush-off!

John passed a hand over his face with a sigh. "I had to see a little girl today. She had a broken arm, but she looked pretty sad. So I asked what the matter was, and she told me she'd lost her kitten."

"Oh, is that all?" Sherlock replied, snapping his book closed nonchalantly and rising with swiftness.

Anger flared up in John. "What do you _mean_ 'is that all'?" He growled.

Sherlock chuckled, pulling on his coat. "Relax, John. An interesting little problem has just been solved. Coming?" He tied his scarf skillfully and tugged his gloves on.

"Where are we going?" John asked, exasperated, following his flatmate out the door.

"Regent's Park," Sherlock replied, hailing a taxi.

Regent's Park had the ability to look stunning under rare London sun and the calmness of spring and summer days, but during the fall and winter and the rainier days of spring, it looked dismal and almost depressing. Sherlock made his way through the park, dodging a group of tourists and taking a detour around a group of children playing football. John followed, recognizing Sherlock's determined step from the many times he'd been on cases with the man. Sherlock was assured of the solution and knew where he was going and what he was doing.

Sherlock stopped at the foot of a somewhat formidable tree and peered up into the branches, removing and pocketing his scarf absently. John watched with some confusion, not really knowing what Sherlock was on about. He realized blankly that he often jumped into situations with Sherlock without really knowing what the detective had in mind. Part of him blamed his soldier nature, but most of John was happy with this conjecture, if it made life more interesting.

Presently, Sherlock jumped up, grabbing onto a low branch with both hands. His legs swung randomly until they found purchase and the tall, thin man swung up onto the first branch. He stood gracefully, balancing carefully with one hand and the tentative step of the tightrope walker while testing if the branch above his head would hold his weight. "If I'd known I'd be doing this," Sherlock muttered audibly, which made John think it may have been directed at him, "I would've skipped lunch."

"What exactly _are_ you doing?" John asked with a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head in defeat. Maybe his crazy flatmate had finally just gone over the deep end. "And one meal doesn't make a noticeable difference in weight."

Sherlock evidently had decided the branch he'd selected would hold his weight, for he swung up quite easily, slipping his coat off his shoulders despite the cold. He tossed it casually down to John, who caught it obediently. Sherlock, now straddling the branch, took a moment to test the flexibility of his jacket. Without hesitance, he unbuttoned it and tossed it down to John as well. Then, he pulled himself into an upright position using the branch above his head to steady him, and pulled himself halfway up with his arms, until he was very nearly standing on tiptoe on the branch below him. John giggled, because Sherlock looked very silly, squinting with the effort it took to stretch, as he climbed.

Sherlock grunted, his feet kicking until he found suitable purchase on the trunk of the tree. Guiding himself upward, Sherlock braced his back against a branch and performed something of a sit-up, his arms reaching upward. John squinted, and saw Sherlock was now holding a tiny ball of fluff. The detective was now, evidently, trying to find the best route down. He tucked the fluff into the crook of one elbow, holding it gently towards his side, his other hand holding onto the branch above him. Then, he jumped down several branches, nearly falling out of the tree once or twice, until he could swing down safely. He brushed himself off absently, and then held out the fluff ball. "Here," he said crossly, "hold him while I put on my things. I'm cold."

John could see now that Sherlock was holding a tiny kitten in his big hands. It was an orange tabby, just about big enough to sit comfortably between Sherlock's palms. The kitten was bedraggled, but looked healthy otherwise. John took the kitten obediently and handed over Sherlock's jacket and coat, both of which he slipped on with an air of petulance, taking off his gloves, as if he didn't just rescue a kitten from a tree.

"Sherlock," John began as the consulting detective gently took the kitten in his hands again, "what did we just do?"

"_I_ just rescued your patient's kitten," Sherlock explained flatly. He was examining the kitten for disease, John surmised—proved as Sherlock lifted each of the kitten's tiny paws and rolled it over onto its belly (though it mewed petulantly at him and bit weakly at the heel of his hand). He checked its eyes and ears as he continued, "_you_ held my coat and jacket for me. I would've simply left them home, but it's the middle of January—far too cold and wet to go any length of time without proper warmth, don't you think?" He smirked in his 'you know I'm right' way.

John rolled his eyes. "You just went about twenty minutes without 'proper warmth,' Sherlock."

"Yes, and you may be required to take care of me," Sherlock dismissed thoughtlessly. "Right now, I suggest we warm this kitten up and return him to his rightful owner, don't you think?"

Within minutes of returning to Baker Street, John sat in absolute shock while Sherlock took care of their new little friend. He set out a tea towel on the kitchen table while warming the other one between his thighs, placing the kitten on top of the first and gently drying the kitten with the second. Sherlock bent to near eye level to the small cat, which must've hurt his back after a while, tenderly massaging the tea towel around the tiny body, drying it off with focused attention usually only reserved for experiments. Even if the kitten swatted or bit at him, Sherlock kept at it, and eventually, the baby animal allowed itself to be dried off. When Sherlock was finished, the kitten lay down upon the tea towel with a yawn. The detective stretched and then gave a small smile, gently scratching a finger on the kitten's head.

John was so amazed that Sherlock was actually being _kind_ and _gentle_ that he forgot to breathe, and had to gasp for breath. Sherlock was heating water over the Bunsen burner—making tea, John thought. But it wasn't for tea, for Sherlock had barely let it sit a minute before he roused the sleeping kitten. Using a pipette, he sucked up the warmed water and offered it to the kitten to drink. The tiny animal graciously accepted the offering. When this was done, Sherlock carefully lifted the kitten, examining it under the harsh light once more, before striding into the living room and grabbing his coat off the hook. "Where does the little girl live?" He asked.

It was a short taxi ride over to the little girl's house. Sherlock lifted the tiny kitten off his lap and put it onto John's. "I think you'd better do it," he said, already sounding quite stuffed up from even just a short exposure to the cold. "Regardless of the rescue, it will probably be better if someone less imposing returns the kitten."

John chuckled, and then nodded. "I'll do my best." He went up to the house and ran the doorbell. The mother and the little girl answered the door. The girl was very happy to see her kitten again and thanked "Dr. John" over and over again until John excused himself humbly and went back to the waiting cab.

Sherlock sneezed into a tissue, but not before John had caught the warm smile present on his face after seeing the little girl so happy. John felt warm, too, especially feeling that Sherlock deserved the best care after his heroic act.

_Sherlock Holmes will never cease to amaze me,_ he thought.


	10. The Adventure at Tesco's

_I've never been inside a Tesco's (American, as if you couldn't tell -_-') but I assume it has the same basic layout of a Wegman's or ShopRite (American supermarkets). Forgive any Americanisms or incorrectness. _

**The Adventure at Tesco's**

"John,"

"It's all right, Sherlock,"

"_John_,"

"Shh, just calm down."

"Don't _leave_, John." Sherlock's thin arm whipped out from beneath the duvet like a striking snake and the cold, sweaty hand grabbed a firm hold of John's arm. The grip tightened, as if Sherlock were hanging on for dear life, and the younger man gave a weak tug. "Don't leave me."

John sighed, and gently began forcing Sherlock's fingers off his arm. "I have to go to Tesco's, Sherlock. We're out of tea and soup and bread and other things, and you're _sick_. You need to rest."

"Don't _leave me_!" Sherlock moaned, his neck arching, eyes closed, hair tussled and damp with sweat. He was sick all right, running a high fever since he'd decided to take a dip in the Thames and go out in a blizzard still sopping wet. John was surprised that he hadn't got frostbite. The younger man was writhing on the bed, now, and John paused to look at him. Sherlock wasn't wearing a shirt, just underwear and a pair of pajama shorts, to keep him in as little clothes as possible to cool him down. Which was why he was only covered by a sheet. As he moved, John noted that Sherlock was still looking underfed from his fasting during the case and a general lack of appetite from his illness. The case had taken only three days, but it had taken John six to notice Sherlock's fever, and by then, it had become severe. Now, three days later, he was better…but only marginally.

"Sherlock, I _have_ to go to the shop."

"No."

"We need food and tea."

Sherlock gave his head a stroppy shake.

John sighed. "Put on one of your violin concertos and have a kip."

Again with the headshake. Sherlock's fists clenched and unclenched reflexively into the sheet.

John rolled his eyes. "I'll have Mrs. Hudson up to take care of you."

"Want you." Sherlock whined childishly, his eyes snapping open. John's heart softened as he saw the bright blue looking so lost and frightened. He had reason to, as his fever dreams (from what sense John could make of them) were frightening hallucinations, and often left Sherlock screaming until his voice was hoarse or in tears for hours.

Still, John belly chose to remind him, food was important. And they were out of everything at the moment, not having a lot of time to relax because of the recent caseload. "I need to go, Sherlock."

Sherlock hummed, his eyelids flowing closed, and John thought maybe that he was going to be reasonable.

All those thoughts halted abruptly when Sherlock's lips upturned into a smile and his eyes opened again. "Take me with you." His eyes darted about, searching John's face.

John groaned. "You're too sick, Sherlock. You'll only make a fuss."

"I won't!" Sherlock cried, sitting up and grabbing John's hand in both his own. "Pleaseplease_please_, John?"

John refused the urge to laugh, because when seriously ill, Sherlock seemed to regress to age five. Well, John Watson knew how to deal with five year olds. "You'll behave, won't you?" His voice was soft, but his eyes were stern.

Sherlock nodded, bouncing slightly, before withdrawing his hands to cradle his head.

John smiled. "Good. Get dressed and meet me in the living room."

Sherlock hissed as he got out from beneath the covers and John left him to get dressed. A few moments later, Sherlock emerged from his room in a dark blue dress shirt that looked to be a size too big for him and trousers, correctly put on. He swayed as he bent to put on his shoes, trembling as he shivered. John gave him his coat and reached up to place his hand against Sherlock's forehead. He was burning up. John frowned, wondering why, as a doctor, he was allowing Sherlock to do this.

While they went down the stairs, Sherlock linked his arm through John's to steady himself. They took a cab to Tesco's and John got a cart while Sherlock followed him, his hands in his pockets, as he looked around curiously.

John looked back and noticed that Sherlock was shaking. His boy probably felt a lot like it was filled with lead. His eyes were glazed and barely aware of their surroundings. John decided the only way to keep Sherlock awake was to engage the brain inside that addled head.

"What kind of bread shall we get, Sherlock?" John asked, presenting Sherlock with the shelves of various bread brands, all lined up neatly in a row, wrapped in clear plastic for easy viewing."

Sherlock started, and then snapped his teeth, grinning madly. "I feel like a velociraptor," he commented, his voice bubbly. It sounded like his "acting human" voice, and John knew it was a feverish delusion.

"Can the velociraptor tell me which bread he wants?" John asked kindly, having learned from experience to just go along with Sherlock's illusions.

Sherlock frowned and pointed at the bread he wanted, his hand shooting out from somewhere in his coat.

John was about to grab the bread, but before he could, Sherlock snatched it from under his fingers. He studied it for half a second before slamming it violently into the cart. John jumped, startled by Sherlock's actions. Sherlock shook his head and stared at John.

"Sorry," he apologized, his voice slightly less dreamy. "I don't feel like a velociraptor anymore."

"I'm surprised you didn't delete dinosaurs from your hard-drive."

"Dinosaurs are cool, John."

"All right then."

John didn't try to engage Sherlock, but Sherlock ended up engaging himself. He picked out teas and hummed under his breath and spat out some more nonsense.

"I saw one of those in my dream last night. It tried to eat me." Pointing at a watermelon.

"Are tomatoes naturally red?"

"Why do some cereals come in boxes and others in bags?"

"If a bird were to fly into Tesco's, would it die, John?"

"How many fingers do potatoes have?" Looking at his own hands. "Mine are black."

"You have gloves, Sherlock."

"Oh." Sherlock giggled.

When they were passing the sweet section, Sherlock let out a little gasp of delight and dashed into the aisle. John sighed and followed Sherlock.

The younger man was standing in front of the party rings. He looked up as he heard John coming with the cart, then resumed his concentration.

"What is it, Sherlock?"

"Those float in my dreams."

"Okay. Do you want them?"

Sherlock's eyes lit up. "Yes please!"

John laughed and grabbed a package, tossing them into the cart. Sherlock put his hands over his mouth and giggled.

In the frozen foods section, John paused to check Sherlock's temperature. He seemed to be less giddy now, and a sort of serene peace had settled over him. His eyes seemed less glazed and hazy. "I feel like an idiot, John," Sherlock admitted shyly, as John tried to assess his temperature.

"It's all right, Sherlock," John withdrew his hand. Sherlock was still hot, but he'd improved some since they left the flat. He was still sweating pretty badly, though. John's hand was damp from even the briefest of contacts. "You're sick. People don't think right when they're sick."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "I thought I was a velociraptor."

"Well," John ran a hand through his army cut. "Everybody deals with fevers differently."

"That's not normal, is it?" Sherlock sounded a little bit frightened, as if feverish hallucinations were going to lead to his admission to a mental hospital.

"Hallucinations from high fevers are perfectly natural."

Sherlock groaned. "I feel sick. I should've stayed in bed."

"I tried to tell you."

Sherlock shook his head, wrinkling his nose again. "They flock to me whenever I leave your side."

"The hallucinations?"

"Yes." Sherlock shuddered.

John felt genuine pity for his sick flatmate. Sherlock looked frightened, although he was trying to hide it by frowning. _Poor Sherlock._ Then, he had an idea. "Sherlock?"

His flatmate stopped frowning and looked inquisitively at him.

"Would you like to pick out a few flavors of ice cream?"

Sherlock smiled weakly. "Will it help?"

John nodded. "Yeah. The cold will bring your fever right down."

Sherlock's weak smile grew into a genuine one. Then, he dove into the cases and brought out a container of rainbow sherbet and a container of Neapolitan ice cream. John nodded and Sherlock gleefully put them into the cart. Then, they went to the check-out.

"You still have my card, right?" Sherlock asked, a little too loudly, as they were paying. Luckily, Tesco's wasn't as packed as it usually was.

John nodded. "Yeah. I don't think I ever gave it back to you." He hesitated as he swiped the card. "Do you want it back?"

"Keep it. I have another one. Somewhere." Sherlock sighed. He sounded tired.

John signed and then lifted the shopping bags. "C'mon, mate. Let's get you home and back into bed." Sherlock eagerly trotted along behind him.

"I'm hungry," Sherlock complained when they got back to the flat, taking off his coat and tossing it against his armchair, unbuttoning his shirt absently as he collapsed into the couch.

John raised an eyebrow. The appetite was new. For three days, John had basically force-fed Sherlock. A returning appetite meant that Sherlock was feeling at least a little better than before. "What do you feel like eating?"

Sherlock, lying on his back on the couch, thought about that. His shirt was entirely unbuttoned, so he ran his hand gingerly down his bare chest, feeling at his protruding ribs and the slight concave curve of his stomach. Even with John trying to coax some food into him, he really hadn't felt hungry before today. Now, his stomach growled, and there was really only one thing he wanted. "Ice cream."

With the size of the man's sweet tooth, John almost saw this coming. "All right, I'll make you a bowl. Then, can you try some soup?"

Sherlock nodded, but then remembered John was in the kitchen unpacking their groceries. "Mmhm."

"Good," John hummed approvingly. Yes. Evidently, Sherlock was feeling _much_ better.

_Because we all need a little feverish!Sherlock to cheer us up, right? Somehow, I can just imagine him, all feverish, spewing out ridiculous nonsense. _

_My grandfather is so funny. I went grocery shopping with him today and he threw the bread into the cart. I laughed, and then I thought of Sherlock. So, yeah. Hope you like this little domestic fic!-SH_


End file.
